


Object Permanence

by tb_ll57



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Background Het, F/M, Gap Filler, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:09:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When he was naked except for a wristwatch, he climbed onto the bed and pushed the curtains back on their rods, and he sat looking at her with guilt and something else like a blush that wasn’t.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Object Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> Co-authored with Marsh, 2006.

If a man has false ideas, if he is not very intelligent, clear-sighted, or courageous, a woman does not hold him responsible: he is the victim, she thinks—and often with reason—of his situation. She dreams of what he might have been, of what he perhaps will be: he can be credited with any possibilities, because he is nothing in particular. This vacancy is what makes the lover weary of him quickly; but it is the source of the mystery, the charm, that seduces her and makes her inclined to feel an easy affection in the first place.  
-adapted from **The Second Sex**

 

She told him to undress and wait for her on the bed. She told him to, but honestly, she was surprised when he did. He took off his shoes and socks and trousers, and she thought about anatomy texts and some informative spying at the giggling age of twelve when she saw his prick, pale pink and dangling like an arrow pointing down as he took off his shirt next. When he was naked except for a wristwatch, he climbed onto the bed and pushed the curtains back on their rods, and he sat looking at her with guilt and something else like a blush that wasn’t.

She undressed for him then, because fair was fair. They had hair the same colour on their private spots, her more than him, and it made her feel less bare. This feeling isn’t nerves, she told herself, and that was that, because she was in control of this situation. It was heady, how easy it had been. A few frank gazes, and then the bold suggestion that he come to her room. She hadn’t even touched him yet.

Her toes brushed his trousers, those silly brown trousers he wore like the miniature grown-up he was. They were still warm from him when she put them on. They fit well, and it irritated her a little, that they were the same size. The front felt funny and baggy, missing the male things that were supposed to fill it, she supposed. His shirt smelled just a bit like cologne and just a bit more like sweat. She hadn’t worn a shirt without a brassiere since– since before she’d seen her first prick on cousin Jeremy’s rugby friends. She felt bold, a little naughty, in Quatre Winner’s clothes without underwear. She felt a little like she was inside of him.

"They smell like you," she told him, carefully climbing onto the edge of her bed. The window nearby let in all the bright Sanquian sun, but only a little of it came into the bed with them, just a splash of yellow that fell between them like a dividing line. "Do you do your own laundry or do you have someone?"

He lay back when she crawled toward him, his hair falling out on the blue pillows and Dorothy thought about ravishment, as if she were the hero out of Relena’s pretty romance novels, and Quatre the virgin sacrifice. "Hard to find a laundry service when INTERPOL are looking out for you," he said, the first thing he’d said since following her to her room– no, since before that. Maybe the first thing he’d said since, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Catalonia.”

She crawled between his feet, sat back on her heels between his knees with their calves touching, his bare against his own trousers. She touched him as cautiously as she would have a hot burner, dragging her fingertips through the hair on his legs, circling the rough skin of his knees. His thighs weren’t how she’d pictured men’s thighs, round with that vee of flesh at the apex, and his hips like hollows, little canyons for her fingers to climb. His prick was getting stiff, and it was rosier, but she was careful not to touch it. When she looked at his face, it seemed funny that his eyes were stoically waiting for her, not exploring her as she was him. "Don't you ever go home?" she asked him suddenly.

"Home is Space,” he said. “They don't... they don't want us there now."

"Oh, don't whine." She seized his nipple, pink like the rest of him, as pink as his shirt that she wore now, and twisted. He made an uncertain noise, and Dorothy rather liked it, so she did it again, and thought she rather liked Quatre Winner, as well. He wasn’t hairy or sweaty, nor arrogant or awful like that boy Heero Yuy who had Relena so enamoured. He smelt good. His skin was as soft as hers. He jumped when she traced a line down the centre of his body and dipped her nails into his navel. "I'd keep you if I could,” she told him. “You'd be fun to play with."

He grinned with one side of his mouth at that. “Would I have to share cupboard space with other toys?" he asked quietly.

Dorothy smiled. "I'd give you your own. Lined with a feather pillow so you wouldn’t get splinters."

"How kind of you." He moved at last, and his hands lay gently on her thighs, on his own trousers– did it make his heart beat the way it did hers?– just resting still. His eyes were just a little wider, looking up at her. "Have you... I mean, do you say this to lots of boys?"

"Oh, there aren't any."

"Oh." Dry little sound, maybe with surprise. But his fingers curled a little bit over her legs.

“Are you frightened now?" she asked him. "Such a large responsibility, isn't it." Boldly she circled the head of his prick with her index finger, around and around. It was soft as well, not at all as solid and forbidding as it looked. It stood thick and long now, like a little soldier at attention, and that amused her almost as much as the flush that was creeping across his face.

"Yes,” he admitted. “To both, really."

"I can tell." But really– really, she thought he was lying to her. He wasn’t afraid, but she was. No; no. She was in control. From beginning to end this round was hers, and she’d disarmed him with barely a whimper. He was hers to do with as she pleased. Dorothy tossed her long hair over her shoulder, and added, "And your nipples are hard." She leant over him, conquering hero, and took her teeth to the one she’d pinched. She heard his breath catch, and he arched, just a little, just a little under her. His prick touched her stomach, warm and velvety.

"That's their job, I think." His voice was strained. His caught a lock of her hair, and she licked his nipple in her mouth as she listened for the rasp of it rubbing between his fingers. "Am I... do you want me to touch you, too?"

She sat back again, watching her hair pull through his fingers, long enough that he still had the end of it when she was still. "You probably should," she said.

"Do you want to leave the clothes on?"

"Maybe for a little longer." It was out before she could stop it. It wasn’t a concession, was it? It wasn’t a concession because she had no reason to fear him. She’d already won, she was the victor claiming her prize. She tossed her head to free her hair, and promised him, "When you leave, you'll smell me."

He smoothed the backs of his fingers up her belly and between her breasts. "Better you than Heero."

"Have you been with him?” Dorothy asked. Her own nipples hardened at his touch, and she wondered if she liked it so much when it happened to her. She wondered if he could see it. “I considered it, you know?” she continued. “But he's rather unresponsive."

He reddened. "I haven't been with him. And he's not 'unresponsive.' He's just... he plays it close to the vest."

"He's dead inside. He wouldn't make a sound when I touched him. But you will, won't you?" His prick rose up between her thighs. She squeezed the head, and discovered the slit in the very tip. She slid the edge of her smallest nail into it, fascinated until he jumped and gasped and grabbed her by the knees. "Did that hurt?" she asked.

"N-no."

"Then you liked it?" she pressed.

He was all red now, red down to his chest and his stomach had gone sucked in. "Yes," he whispered. His eyes were closed, but then they opened wide to look at her.

She felt her smile widen, and beamed down tenderly at him, magnanimous in her power to do him good or ill. “You'll have to tell me what you like, Quatre,” she explained solemnly. “I haven't done this before." But she didn’t wait for him to tell her anything– just in case. She leant over him, straddled him, pressing his prick flat between them to his belly. The fabric of his trousers met her private place, scratchy and a little damp against her. She shivered at the contact, and hoped he hadn’t noticed. No, his fingers were sliding over her skin again, up under the shirt over her ribcage. His thumbs sat under the curve of her breasts, and then he cupped them, squeezing very gently. His pink lips were parted just a little.

"I like... this," he breathed.

She shivered again at the feel of his palms on her breasts. She’d touched herself there, but it had never felt like this. Why had no-one ever told her? She’d have done it years ago. But no; then it wouldn’t have been so perfect now.

She bent slowly, placing her hands on the pillows beside his head, lowering herself. "How many girls have you kissed, Quatre?" she asked him. She brushed his mouth– no, just almost, just a hair away from a kiss. She could taste his breath as he exhaled, and imagined him tasting her.

"A few,” he whispered. “Aunties don't count, I suppose."

“And how many boys?"

He caressed her back, under the shirt, following the nubs of her spine like a blind man reading a bible written in braille. "Do you think I'm gay?"

"Yes." He spread his palm against her shoulderblade. The weight of her breasts felt glorious, like the drift of her hair falling about them, better curtains that the cotton gauze wrapping her bed. "I'm practically sure of it."

"I'm not,” he said. “I'm here with you."

"We'll see." Experimenting, she worked her hips back and forth over his. The seam of the trousers dug into her, hot friction against a place that made her tingle oddly. He rubbed his thumbs against her nipples, then cupped her breasts again. "This is– nice,” she decided, and his eyes were wide again. “I like this too.”

"Can I touch you, well, down there?"

"I think I'm ready to take your trousers off," she answered. And then she kissed him. She’d never kissed anyone before, and she knew it was awkward, wetter than it seemed like it should be, and their teeth hit and hurt, but he put his hands in her hair and held her down onto him and seemed happy enough with it. Dorothy allowed herself to relax, and concentrated on making it better. She set a rhythm to it, her lips pulling at his, but he was the one who knew about tongues, and she was a little angry, a little envious that he knew what she didn’t. It broke the mood, and she pulled away from him abruptly. "I can't take your trousers off like this, Quatre," she told him irritably.

He was all wide eyes and pink lips gone red from the pressure of hers, and she almost forgave him when he apologised quickly. "I’m sorry,” he said. “Er, now?"

She waited just to be sure he really wanted it, and was reassured by what she saw. So she wriggled free of them, laying on his chest to kick them off her ankles, then pushing off and straddling him again. And he was panting just a bit when she was finished, his eyes darting down to look at her before pulling back up to her face as if he were embarrassed. She forgave him the rest of the way for that, because he seemed so young and that made her feel stronger.

"What do you want to do, Quatre?" she asked him, granting him permission. A small bit of permission. He seemed to understand how short his leash was, instinctive of him, and Dorothy sat straighter over him, throwing her shoulders back.

His fingers twitched and he stilled them. "Maybe– um– I could touch you there. If you like. It feels good."

"You'd like to put me on my back and do things, wouldn't you," she mused.

"It's all right like this, really. I think it's better for the girl to be on top." He turned even pinker. All boys should look like that, she thought, and realised she was in danger of becoming fond of Quatre Winner at a very inefficient time.

"Why's that?" she prodded.

"I don't know.” Now she was sure he was lying, but it was a little lie. And he couldn’t sustain it for long. “It was my sister who told me, and I was trying really hard not to listen to all of it."

"Your sister gave you sex tips?"

"Four of them did. One called up special because the others told her they'd talked to me about it."

Dorothy laughed aloud at that, delighted. "That's really sick,” she said. She couldn’t contain her laughter, but she liked how it bounced off the sunlight that was stubbornly seeking them out in the bed. “Show me what they taught you."

"It's not sick. They're nurses, some of them. One's a doctor. It was all medical stuff."

"They're your _sisters._ You don't talk to sisters about sex. You stopped touching me."

"We started talking about my sisters and it got a little weird."

She’d embarrassed him. She liked it. She moved, sliding her self up and down the length of his prick, shuddering at the feel of him hard against the parting of her slick insides. "I don't want to talk about them, Quatre." All pretty and pinked and spread out beneath her like this, she felt fond indeed of him. They were getting closer to the moment where she could ravage him, where she thought he might even ask her to. He really was exactly what she wanted.

And biting his lip in the most precious way, afraid of his own body. Could she cure him of that?

“We should use a condom," he whispered.

Damn him. Dorothy held still with the tip of his prick caught against the lip of her skin, only her weight keeping it down and out of her. Damn him. "Do you have one?"

He shook his head, and she could have strangled him for that. What a bother. "Well, we don't have to do that," he said, and if he hadn’t squirmed she would have done it, strangled him right on her own bed. She dared him with her eyes. "I want to,” she told him, making her voice like steel. “I don't care about the condom."

"You will care if you get pregnant."

She tossed her head, annoyed. "It wouldn't mean anything if I did."

She wondered then if she’d shocked him. He certainly hesitated long enough. Sensitive? Maybe she should address that, in her next choice. It wouldn’t do to have to sit through this debate with every boy she brought to bed.

He said, "I could pull out."

"No.” Dorothy made a face. “That's horrid. We're not going to chicken out."

"It's not chickening out, it's being smart."

She narrowed her eyes and speared him with her best glare, the one she remembered on her own mother’s face. “Nothing will happen." And honestly, did he expect her to _tell_ him if it did? What a nuisance he was turning out to be.

But in the end, that was that, and Dorothy chalked it up to the power of sex– their sex, still mashed together with him almost inside her. It was a lesson she would remember. He gripped her hips tightly, and sighed out sharply. "All right. Fine."

"I knew you'd do it,” Dorothy said, thrilled enough to reward him with a smile. “You're very dependable, Quatre." She rolled off of him and planted herself on her back, splaying her legs open and pulling on his shoulder until he moved to lie on top of her. His weight was a pleasant counterpoint to the smooth silk of the duvet and the give of the feather mattress pad. "I wouldn't do this with just anyone, Quatre Winner,” she praised him, and drew him down for a kiss.

Then he was moving down her body, tasting her everywhere with an open mouth and touching every inch of skin with his hands as if he’d never– well, he’d already admitted he’d never done it before. Two virgins together, and he would take something from her, and she would give something to him, but really both would just... increase her. Dorothy Catalonia, in the full flush of womanhood. She felt powerful as he sucked on her breast, invincible when he licked at her belly. She laughed when he opened her with his fingers.

His head rose from worshiping her. His lips were pink, rosy pink, like his cheeks, and his eyes were like the ocean, blue and green and washing over her. "What do you want me to do?" he asked her simply.

She arched her neck, her breast rounding under his palm, his fingertips combing the hair over her groin. I could devastate him if I rejected him now, she thought, and it made her laugh again, how easy it was for a woman to win. She would never forget that, either. "Show me what your sisters taught you,” she ordered, and even she was surprised at how husky, how throaty her voice had become. “I want to know."

His eyes dropped from hers. “They didn't teach me sex things. Don't say it like that."

"Then just do what you want. Haven't you ever thought what you'd do if you ever got naked wth a girl?"  
"I don't think I ever got much past this, to be honest." But in went his finger, and she arched with it. Just a little intrusion into her, almost a tickle, but warm, and it made her want more. "If you're a virgin, it might hurt."

"I know." She laughed, gave herself over to the laughing that seemed centred on his finger in her, letting it ripple up her body in a wave of heat that left her breathless. "If it's terrible, I'll hurt you back later."

His head bowed back into place. "Can I kiss you there?" he asked, as humble as a penitent.

"If you want," she told him graciously, and lay back on the pillow with her hand to her lips, reveling in this feeling of freedom. He kissed her thighs first, and turned his cheek into her palm when she touched his hair. He kissed her lips between her legs, breathing out on her, and then his tongue followed the path his finger had made. It was just like kissing him on the mouth had been, messily wet, just a little uncomfortable, but he pushed deeper, and his jaw was moving, his nose in her short hairs, and then his teeth touched something that made her freeze on a stab of sensation that was almost too intense to be pleasure, and then she was shoving him away from her.

"I'm sorry," he said instantly, hovering awkwardly.

The unrestrained vividness of her reaction frightened her– only a little. Yes, only a little. She pushed it away just as she had Quatre. "You didn't do anything wrong,” she said. “I just... want to move on."

But he didn’t move, and slowly she realised he was going soft, that his ungainly pose was really an attempt to hide it from her. She had miscalculated, rejected him after all, and a tinge of panic replaced her self-assurance. This was her set, and she couldn’t lose now, not when she’d been so sure she’d already won.

She drew a calming breath, and spoke evenly. "Quatre, will you look at me, please?"

He propped himself on an elbow, the other hand wiping discreetly at his mouth. His eyes skipped to hers and then away. Dorothy patted his arm, then caressed his chest when that didn’t work. "It was very nice. But I'm impatient."

"Very nice isn't a sterling review," he pointed out a little petulantly.

"I don't have any better words," she said, frustrated. "I'm not kind. And I've been waiting for this forever.” It occurred to her, too late, that putting pressure on him was not the best way to go. Now his eyes were definitely downcast, and she had to stop herself from snapping at him. Sweetly, she lied, “If you want to stop, I'll understand. But I hope you don't. I want it to be with you."

It was nothing to guide his head down to rest on her ribs. She could sense his confusion, radiating off him in wave after wave. Dorothy rubbed his neck, judging the tension she felt there. When nearly a full minute had passed, she scratched lightly at the skin beneath his hair, then drew a line with her fingernail down his spine over the ridge of his back. She shifted her legs beneath him, and curled the tip of her finger over the shell of his ear. His shiver was her signpost. The game could still be hers. Of course it would be.

At last he came back to his elbows, and he crawled up her body, bringing their faces level. She could smell herself faintly on him, and it was like marking his clothes had been, only better. She felt the brush of his prick asking entrance, but she waited, treasuring the moment until she could read the begging in his eyes. She gave in gracefully then, and wrapped her legs loosely around his hips, watching her toes rise above him, pointed toward the window in elegant sun-washed curves. "I always admired you, Quatre," she said dreamily.

He shook his head, minutely. "You've only just met me."

"Not really." With a luxurious stretch she arched her body, and took him into her, as far as his tongue had gone and maybe a little more. He was pressure at her centre, and she had to hold back her laughter when he dropped his face to hide in her shoulder and his fingers wrapped about her arms. His hips gave a helpless little thrust before he stopped himself with a ragged gasp.

"Don't stop," she instructed him softly. She pushed just a little more, crafting her spine into a perfect semi-circle, pulling him in with the muscles of her legs. “I like it."

His hand slid under her thigh and lifted. They drew a breath– in tandem, for just the space of it– and then in a venomously forceful push he was in her completely.

She’d never quite believed that it would hurt. She’d been wrong. And it was– perfect.

He sat tensely seated in her, his breath hard against her ear. "Did it hurt?" he whispered. He trembled over her, in her.

"Not at all,” she whispered back, enchanted for a moment with him. Sweet boy, his hair a sunlight halo that smelled so good. She nuzzled his neck, and with an effort, clenched her inside about him, making him rock against her. “Keep going," she commanded. "Quatre."

It was just like the kissing. She set the rhythm, opening up for him, squeezing down on the in and on the out, until they were rocking and the bed frame was squeaking and the laughter was bubbling up in her like champagne freshly opened, fizzing up until she was heady, drunk on it. He fumbled between them, and if he didn’t know quite where to look at first, he found it quickly, rubbing her clitoris, and she felt a little cheated at how much better it was when he did it. But it was the combination of it all, him sprawled over her, pressing her into the bed, him deep in her, the tantalising hammer of his heart on hers when his chest brushed her breasts and they were almost, but not quite, one triumphant woman. She cupped his buttocks the way he’d held her breasts, she mashed them together, wrenched them apart. If she stretched– yes– she could just reach his scrotum, pinch the skin between index and thumb, rub the spongy little balls of flesh. She was widely read, if Relena’s secret collection of very detailed novels could be said to count, but in the moment Quatre gasped and bucked against her she knew they were the best education she could have asked for. She did it again, and for good measure she brushed one finger over his pucker. He buried himself in her with a needy, magnetic little moan. "You say the nicest things, Quatre," she whispered. She mimicked his thrust and pushed her finger in him to the knuckle.

He shuddered deeply. "Jesus Christ."

She’d known he was gay. She wrapped her legs tight around him and ground him into her as he panted into her neck. It should always be like this, she promised herself, this high, this magnificent surety that she could rule the bloody world if she wanted. He was working for it now, nothing but a faint outline against her eyelids as he pitched faster and harder. She’d never had one like this before, but it hit her that the growing burn and pulse was her orgasm coming. It poured out of her and it was exactly that, a climax, shiver after shiver of it, and she screamed it out to the world just because she could, and she gave it back to him as generously as she could, cramming another finger dry into him and filling him like he filled her. Laughing, laughing, shaking to pieces with the laughter when he blacked out, coming inside her.

And then she was floating down, fine like the smoothest wine she’d ever tasted, like shined satin that whispered in unseen breezes. Quatre’s hair brushed her cheek as she disentangled herself from his limp body. He was absolutely beautiful like that, wasted and wilted down to that little pink boy with lost eyes who trailed Heero Yuy. But better. And everything that was better in him, she had made.

She kissed his temple, and smiled for him.


End file.
